This is the time of day when I’m not really sure what to do with myself. I walk around the room as if I’ll find something that will somehow captivate me to do something.
But nothing’s there. You sit and listen to music and feel somewhat like a tiny buzzing insect, just waiting for time to come.
It’s like you’ve somehow lost touch with all the things life is suppose to include. You stare at your television a lot but never put a thing on. And you’re too lazy to even care.
I think the hardest thing about writing is not caring whether your writing is good to anyone else, and especially yourself.
All the books are still unread on the floor, and you’ve read all these words before.
Sometimes we’re too bored to breathe.